After a moment, he spotted Commander Forguile below him. Braced on one of the ropes, Ennis Forguile stood between the first and second levels. The gloom was too dim for signal-flags: the effects of the lightning were too blinding. Instead, he bellowed instructions, yelled encouragement. His voice and his willingness to risk himself sustained the gunners’ discipline. In sequence, sixteen cannon delivered a steady barrage.

The cannoneers were alive because Magisters protected them. And because they had already sunk the nearest ships. Earlier, Flisk had seen twenty vessels in the bay. Now he counted only fourteen. And he was sure of the number. The remaining ships were etched against the darkness by flagrant blasts of lightning.

Six ships down. With the little attention he could spare, Heren Flisk prayed that the corpses of those vessels would serve as fresh obstacles for Rile’s approach.

Still, the battle looked impossible. He wanted to raise his rifle and fire, not hoping to hit anything but simply to express his defiance.

A moment later, a load of chain clipped a mast. For no apparent reason, the craft staggered as if it had struck an undetected boulder. Despite its unnatural stability, it heeled onto its side, exposed its flank.

One by one, cannonballs tore into it. Ravenous seas rushed inward, gripped the vessel. The men on the decks scrambled to save themselves. Inaudible in the winds and thunder, they may have screamed. But they had no chance. In moments, the waves tore them and their ship out of sight.

Flisk cheered without realizing that he had made a sound.

In an instant, the more distant craft reacted as if they had received a prearranged signal. Their sorcerers stopped hurling bolts into the waters. Instead, every Decimate of lightning was directed at the cliff, the terraces, the emplacements.

Those vessels were farther away. The Magisters had more time to react, an increment measured in fragments of a heartbeat. If they had been prepared for the change in tactics, or could have taken the moments they needed to rest—

Their stamina had limits. They were already near the edges of their strength. Captain Flisk knew that. Commander Forguile roared warnings. But the gunners ignored their peril.

Magister Visible was the first to fail. Giving her best, she protected the northern end of the second terrace. But she was not enough. During an instant of weakness, a crooked shaft of silver struck her as if it had been aimed straight at her heart. Flisk saw all of her bones outlined in fire. Then the gunpowder stored near her exploded. She and her guards burst into shreds.

Two teams of cannoneers died with her. Shattered by the blast, half a dozen paces of smoothed stone and fitted parapet became rubble. One gun was flung away, a crumpled wreck. Another toppled into the gap made by the explosion. Stained by blood and bodies, it twisted itself to scrap on the level below it.